Welcome mat

Why, hello. No, no; I'm glad you stopped by. It's good to see you here.

It's been a week of reunions on-line and off, with more on the horizon: old friends (including one really old friend, which: wow), the San Antonio clan, the forty acres, a host of familiar faces, young and old, from the kids' school...

... and everything autumn, even though I know that summer will linger 'round the edges for another month or two, at least.

Doesn't matter; I love this time of year. Spring gets all the credit for new beginnings, and not without reason, but autumn: that's a stack of new spiral notebooks just waiting to be filled with thoughts and hopes and dreams that have yet to be imagined.

Fresh-faced potential. Delicious possibility.

The truth is that I always feel nostalgic walking 'round my campus of choice, but last weekend was especially weighted with meaning and emotion and sweet, misty sentiment.

Twenty years, said the voice in my head at nearly every turn.

Twenty years ago, in what may have been the only truly independent decision of my life, I drove from Vicksburg to Austin to start anew. I had fallen head-over-heels in love with the town... and I had faith that the town would love me, too.

It didn't let me down.

I found love: the real deal. I found direction. I found illumination. I found myself. I found the path to my entire life within those forty idyllic acres, in that bright and shiny time.

Now I'm back in this town, just a little north. It's home and it's good, but I imagine that a part of me will always miss Austin, all of my days.

It's here, to this town, where my mom will come for a day this week, to have what we hope will be the doctor's visit that assuages all of our worst fears.

And a few days later, some of my dearest friends will gather in celebration and memory of the apple-cheeked baby girl who, improbably, brought us all together.

I welcome the reunions; I cherish the connections to my past. And I hold my arms open to whatever or whomever arrives on my front step next.

Interlude

The truth, of course, is that I love every one of her gorgeous songs, regardless of the meanings behind them. It just so happens that this particular selection speaks volumes to me.

And tonight, for me.

+++

What I deserve is comfort for my shaken soul;
The water on my hands are tears from long ago.
My skin lets it in; it's always been too thin,
Since I can't remember when.

And, oh: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve...
Oh, darling: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve.

There's solace in this dusty earth and rocky hills,
But even starry skies can't mend my broken will.
My blood doesn't pour; there's nothing to bleed for,
I don't believe, anymore.

And, oh: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve...

Now, I have done the best I can.
Oh, but what I've done, it's not who I am:
And, oh: what I deserve...

Time has left me feeling old and losing hope;
Hell, I've walked a long way just to find the end of my rope.
You say that I should pray: well, I would, but my faith has strayed.
I don't believe I'll be saved.

And, oh: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve...
Oh, darling: what I deserve, what I deserve, what I deserve.

Transparency

So, what happened was this.

Three weeks ago, I had a free minute, maybe two, so I called my mother. Just to say hello.

And what she said, in reasonably short order, was that she'd been to the opthalmologist for her annual check-up. He'd promptly referred her to a specialist.

She'd gone to the specialist the very next day, and learned that there was an inexplicable, heretofore unseen mass at the back of her retina.

No one could be sure what it meant, but the fear was that it meant something called ocular melanoma. Which didn't sound good. Sounded bad, actually.

It's a tricky diagnosis, apparently; no real avenue for biopsies and such. So the specialist told her: come back in three weeks, and we'll see if it's grown. How much, how fast.

Well, don't cry 'till you're hurt, my father-in-law said, when I explained the situation in a shaky voice. He meant well, I suppose, but it was utterly meaningless advice.

Because I cried. A lot. Fretted, worried, railed and wailed. Wrung my hands in therapy at the injustice of it all. Implored my friends to rally 'round, and fell clumsily into my husband's strong shoulders.

And then, set the timer for three weeks.

Three weeks later, we were at the beach, still playing chicken with a hurricane and grieving long-distance for a dear friend and her own unspeakable loss.

My father and his wife arrived; I was happy they'd come, but too anxious to emote anything cheerful. Couldn't stop checking the timer. Kept staring at my phone, trying to will it to ring.

Finally, finally, after an unbearably long wait: there was some news. Not much, though; in fact, it was really nothing at all. No change.

Thank God.

The nothing was something, in that it was the first glimmer of hope and optimism we'd stumbled across for three weeks.

But still, there were questions; still, there weren't answers. So: further tests, a trip north, sometime this week.

For now, though, we all remember how to breathe. And relax just a little. It feels good.

And that's what happened.

Black cat

You know, if I were the superstitious type, I might be fighting a bad case of nerves right about now.

To begin with, I just crossed that bridge a few hours ago, for the first time since the initial bolt of lightning that struck here exactly three months ago.

We're staying the night with my sister, the newlywed, before we press on to the same beach where I stared, stunned and depressed, at big blue waves that kept rolling in and swirling out, wholly undisturbed by the turn of events in my small world.

We'll spend a few days by the water, assuming that no actual lightning bolts from an encroaching hurricane attempt to knock us off-course.

If all goes well, my father will join us for a visit. He's unaware that, as we ignore his elephant in the room, I'll be anxiously awaiting word on my mother's health.

It's a small space that we'll be sharing. Not enough room, really, for two elephants.

So even though I'm not the superstitious type, as far as you know, surely you'll forgive me if I avoid walking under ladders, broken mirrors and the number thirteen.

At least for the next few days. And then, I hope, I'll be able to breathe again. Knock on wood.

The ties that bind

Forty years ago this fall, they married, having met cute on an air force base in the Philippines some time before.

Even as a child, poring over the pictures of them in a small ivory album, I thought they made an unlikely pair.

She was tall, graceful, with a blond shoulder-length flip and a dreamy look in her eyes. He was shorter, darker, with a military-issue haircut and heavy glasses.

After a year or two, they welcomed a daughter. Three years later, they welcomed another, which made me a big sister.

Were we a happy family? I don't remember. And ultimately, it didn't matter. Before five more years had passed, he'd moved on, and nothing was ever the same again.

They remarried: first him, then her. They divorced, again: first her, then him. In between, other children were born: two here, one there.

He married again, this time for good. She swore she was done with marriage, with love.

Now, they see each other for milestones: when daughters are married; when grandchildren are born. Only when it matters, and no more.

But still, they are bound by that ceremony forty years ago. What do they think about that? I can't help but wonder.

Invisible ink

With two exceptions, I've told no one about this side blog project of mine.

I'm not sure why, exactly. Maybe it's because I'm embarrassed by the emotions I'm spilling so clumsily here.

In trying to process what's happening in my life, I've somehow managed to generate this pulpy mess that's awkward, cryptic and nonsensical.

The temptation to delete it all is intermittent, but strong, born mostly of pride, or a lack thereof.

Of course, I could make it private, but there's something strangely liberating about releasing these thoughts into the blogosphere, like messages tucked into bottles, then set adrift.

And so, for now at least, I keep typing, curious to see what happens next.

H2O

Not much to update this week, which is both good and bad.

The good, I suppose, is that we all seem to be sailing along in a generally calm and happy lake of denial. A gentle breeze puffs along every now and then, but it's mostly smooth waters. Pretty scenery. I could stay here a while.

The bad, of course, is that I occasionally remember what it is that we're in denial about, whereupon I gasp and sputter and feel as if I'm sinking. Not so fun.

The regularly scheduled paid discussions continue to go reasonably well. Last week's chat introduced the topic of a family member who excels in the language of passive-aggressive vitriol. The ripple effects of her last visit: still rocking the boat.

However. Life jackets have been donned, and I think we'll navigate the rough seas all right. We just need to keep paddling, yes? Yes.

Hands to heaven

On top of everything else, and now, I suppose, because of it, is this recent struggle with faith. What are my thoughts on the Big Guy Upstairs?

My standard explanation, when asked, was always that I was perfectly comfortable walking through life with my second-grade Sunday-school beliefs untested and intact.

I'm not sure when that changed, but it has, and now I don't know what to do with the shards. Do I attempt to piece them back together, or just dust them off into the garbage bin?

More than anything, it's the prayer thing that gets me.

Come on, now: am I really just talking to myself? Is it some form of self-therapy that may, on occasion, meet with blind serendipity or dumb luck? When prayers are answered, allegedly, is it the power of suggestion, positive thinking, self-fulfilling prophecy?

When my father's father died, we weren't aware that, in his retirement, he'd actually had a full-time job: protecting his wife's fragility from the world, and vice versa. In his absence, we realized the enormity of the task. What's worse, so did she.

I was fourteen, and I remember every detail of the room and the moment when she stood at the top of the stairs and stammered, in this impossibly small and helpless voice, "But... but I don't even know how to pray."

At the time, and for the longest time thereafter, I thought it was the saddest thing I'd ever heard. Just the saddest statement anyone could make. Not knowing how to pray? How could anyone feel that lost and alone?

I think I get it now, and I don't like it.

How do I pray? And for what? I need to know. I really, really need to know.

Duh.

It turns out that the therapy? Crucial. And the timing? Serendipitous.

I'll be honest and say that I still have my doubts about the personality fit, but just having a safe place to unleash and unload this emotional baggage was worth every single penny, plus some, of the check that I wrote yesterday.

So, next week: same day, same time? You think? Uh-huh. Oh, yeah. Please.

Pep

She's fine. I know it, I feel it: she's fine, fine, fine. This is nothing to worry about, not one iota. She's fine because she has to be, and that's all there is to it. So we'll play this little waiting game, but in three weeks we'll have all the evidence we need that she's absolutely, positively, unequivocally FINE.

And he? Well, he's obviously doing great. Looks healthy. Feels good. Seems happy. Traveled to South Africa a few weeks ago. Renovating his house this summer. Planning to buy a motorcycle! Clearly, this guy's not going anywhere anytime soon. Nothing to worry about here, either. He's just fine.

I'm so glad we had this little chat.

Delivery

When he delivered the news, it was measured, calm, confident. We didn't really have a chance to ask questions, because he answered them for us as he patiently explained the past, present and predicted future.

It wasn't meant to protect us, I don't think, although it surely must have. A blow is a blow, but this one was cushioned as much as possible. I don't chalk it up to paternal instinct; it's just the way he's always operated. Deliberately. Cautiously. Rationally.

You're just like your mother, he said when I was a girl. I could read the subtext; I knew he meant that this made me his polar opposite. She and I were (and, obviously, still are) irrationally emotional women, prone to unpredictable fits of hysteria. Dangerous creatures.

This morning, however, she was calm, although she didn't have any answers or explanations. But honestly, I couldn't think of any questions. I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of hysteria, trying not to fall. Scared out of my mind, literally.

I don't have any idea what to do, say, think. How will I fumble through three weeks without knowing anything? And what will happen after I do?

Mal de tête

Yesterday, I wrote someone a thank-you note for listening to me ramble and stutter and verbally fumble through a painfully stilted, forced conversation.

Oh, fine: it wasn't really a thank-you note. Rather, it was a check. For one hundred and fifty dollars. Which is, apparently, the going rate for two sessions of therapy.

Therapy. I confess that I cringe and squirm, just saying the word. At the risk of sounding judgmental, I admit that I feel ridiculous, weak and self-absorbed, submitting to therapy.

I thought it would be liberating. I hoped it would be helpful. I felt that my ability to cope, which had never been especially impressive to begin with, had completely imploded over the past few months, and that perhaps a professional could help me sort through the rubble and begin to rebuild, newer and stronger than before.

Is that a realistic goal? I don't know. From the innumerable psychotherapists in a fifteen-mile radius, have I made a wise choice with this one? I don't know. Does therapy actually help anyone, or is it simply a placebo, a sugar pill, a lollipop? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

I'm sure that time will answer these questions and more. But time: well, I'm never very confident that it's on my side.

"I sense that you're feeling a real sense of urgency," she said. YES, I wanted to shout. Yes! Please, just cut to the chase and tell me what to do. Can't we just skip past these little getting-to-know-you exercises, and get to the good stuff already?

Patience: clearly, a challenge for me.

And so, instead of dissecting the events of this past week, which featured a highly unusual 24-hour visit with my father, and then another one with my sister (ahem: my two most dysfunctional relationships), we primarily discussed my mother, and the things she did and said thirty years ago, most of which I only vaguely recall. Agony.

Three sessions, I've promised myself. I'll attend three sessions before I throw up my hands and call this a big fat failed exercise in futility. Two down; one to go.

Mindful

Thanks to architectural tours 'round the Windy City, I'm familiar with Mies van der Rohe's declaration that God is in the details.

And so it is that I'm reminded of my father wherever I happen to be. It's often in the most peculiar moments and minutiae that I see his face.

At Flying Fish for a family-day lunch yesterday, my crispy salad, of all things, jogged the memory of one of his oft-repeated tales: the time he introduced me to fried oysters.

Like the beagle, I'd begged for a taste from his plate. And, like the beagle, I'd promptly declared it inedible by sticking out my tongue at him.

Meaningful? Not in the slightest. But the mindfulness: well, it's reassuring, somehow.

He's not gone, for heaven's sake; right at the moment, he's only a state line away, and he's promised to visit us in a few days.

But I find a small comfort in knowing that he can be conjured so easily, simply by opening my eyes to what surrounds me.

Revelation

I can see now that it was perfect, the way he told us. Awful and epic and tragic, to be sure, but perfect in its poetry and synchronicity.

There we were, in his hometown, nestled in the hills. It was the town that birthed him and, to varying degrees, shaped each one of us.

It was the morning after his daughter's wedding day, and the happiness still mingled in the air with the fog that drifted lazily over the lake.

Dutifully, the two of us met him on the wooden deck, giddily apprehensive to learn why we'd been called together in his own peculiar way. It was typical, really.

But no: it was anything but typical.

He never stopped smiling, steadily transmitted optimism and cheer, even as the words fell ugly and black, like stones: cancer. prostate. bone. stage four. two years.

My head reeled; my breath stopped. I knew I couldn't cry. I knew I couldn't cry. I knew how disappointed he'd be in me if I succumbed to my weaker instincts and began to cry.

"You're just like your mother," he'd always said, and it was condemnation, not praise. So I let the words keep falling like stones, and tried to will my emotions up high, to a safer place.

In short order, however, his other daughter started to cry, to my surprise and relief. She'd always been the strong one, cut from the same cloth as him, and so I felt I'd been given permission to let my own tears fall.

But it wasn't until later, when I was away from it all, when I was with the man who knows me best, that I could let go, let every bit of it go. He knew everything, and he let me let go.

I let go. But I think I'm still falling.

Muddy waters

There's something about crossing that bridge, the one that carries me across the muddy waters. It's tangible, the shift I feel as I pass from one state to the next.

The past to the present. The known to the uncertain.

Above my head, a sign serves as an official homecoming. Down below, the great river swirls and churns, mighty and swift.

It's creative and destructive. Mystical and inspirational.

Countless tales of love and loss have played out among the hills that roll up and away from the river's banks. This is just one of them.

Welcome to texsippian...

... it's my state of mind. Or something like that.